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February 06, 2005
Thoughts on a funeral ...
You couldn't have asked for a prettier day. Rains had rolled through a few days earlier and everything look newly scrubbed and fresh, including the afternoon sky of porcelain blue. The local mountains, dusted at the peaks with powered-sugar snow and along the freeway as my husband, Eric, and I traveled to the cemetary, California poppies and larkspur bloomed in early riot colors of orange and purple.
The sheer beauty of the day kept coming back to me; the way the afternoon sun sparkled the rolling grass of the hill we parked on and made deep blue shadows on the Old North Church where the funeral was to be held. A slight breeze stirred the trees and we could look out across the valley, over Burbank, the pass into the north end of the San Fernando Valley clear in the distance. It was if Anne had ordered a postcard perfect day, the kind that inspires eastcoasters to abandon shoveling snow in January and vow to move to Southern California.
We stepped into the vestibule of the church, where in hushed tones we greeted old friends and nodded to strangers, all united in coming to honor Anne.
I realize that many people don't like funerals. The distaste runs from personal uncomfortableness when faced with our own mortality to an outright hostility towards the funeral "industry." Even death, itself, is viewed more as a "disease" in our culture, rather than just a normal part of living. We even seem to view grief and mourning as distasteful emotions. But that, too, is part of life, to be embraced and understood for what it is, in and of itself.
And I mourn Anne, even as the grief has subsided and the joy of my memories flood through me.
As I looked around the church as the soloist sang, the sunlight slanting through the tall windows, I thought about all the people gathered in her honor, the people whose lives she touched as sister, mother, aunt, grandmother, and friend.
I met Anne when I was seven years old. She was my Girl Scout leader and I had just joined the Brownies. Her oldest daughter, Patty, was in my class at Rinaldi Street Elementary school and we'd go on to be best friends through elementary and junior high. As I sat listening to the service, to the Reverend talking about her life, I flipped randomly back and forth though the scrapbook of memories of years past. Being in Anne's livingroom with fifteen other small girls learning to tie knots and how to roll up sleeping bags in preparation for our first camping trip. Listening to her late-husband Bob's horselaugh as Patty and I raced about the backyard. Standing proudly in my full uniform as Anne handed me my pins during the "flying up" ceremony that moved us from Brownies to Junior Girl Scouts.
Anne and Bob and my parents would become fast friends. My mom would be co-leader for several years and Anne and Bob would introduce my parents to snow skiing (something they still do). About 1965 Anne and Bob moved from a small house below Rinaldi Street to a larger one above it. One Saturday they and my parents bundled the gaggle of us children off to a matinee -- me and Patty "in charge" of our younger sisters, I have one, Patty has three -- so the four adults could put in plants and grass in the new front yard. The theater was almost exclusively filled with children, hooting and hollering and having a grand time watching "It's a Mad Mad World", the floor sticky with jujubees, spilled soda and popcorn in a scene almost reminscent of the Gremlins watching "Snow White." Such was the innocence of the age that parents could dropoff and pick up kids under the age of 11 from the movie theater without worry.
Near the end of the service the Reverend invited anyone who wanted to step forward and speak a few words on how Anne had touched their lives. A nephew stood to speak saying that one of the great lessons that he took was Anne's dedication to "plain speaking." We all chuckled at that diplomatic understatement. Anne was a California transplant from Brooklyn, NY. And while one took the girl out of Brooklyn, one never took Brooklyn out of the girl. Anne was almost a force of nature and never held back on telling you exactly what was on her mind. I think this was also one of the reasons she was so successful as a GS leader for well over 25 years, controlling, herding and teaching gaggles of girls -- gaining their respect without ever losing her mind.
Then Paul stood to speak. He had been the little boy across the street, the young son of a curmudgeonly character actor. Paul related to us he had been arrested twelve times by the time he was 17 and while his parents had given up on him, Anne wouldn't/didn't. She had gone to his last juvenile hearing and fought for him, promising the court that she'd take him in and see to it he obeyed the house rules.
"And after I got home with Anne and learned the rules, I thought Juvenile Hall would have been an easier go."
And thirty some odd years later, Paul was standing in front of a church telling us that Anne was his mom and always would be.
The reception was at Anne's home, a place where I spent so much time. I took Eric around the house pointing to places and relating memories ... this where we had our GS meetings and slumber parties ... over here, pool parties and birthday parties ... this is where littlest sister, Debbie, fell down the stairs and broke her jaw ..this is where a sliding glass door was, the one Patty ran through when she was 12 ...
Photograph albums were scattered on the table and we all flipped through them. Pictures of Anne as a young woman, young mother. Pictures from camping. Pictures of Patty and me at Camp Lakota, mugging for the camera. A yellowed newspaper clipping of Anne in GS Leader uniform at the dedication of a new GS council office. Pictures of skiing. Pictures of school graduations, of baby grandchildren, of her life over decades.
In all the laughter and hugs and memories shared that evening, there were few tears. Mostly because Anne would have been fiercely against anyone crying over her. Her life had been full, of love and dedication and trial. She would want to be remembered with the funny stories and a house full of people laughing. She was getting her wish, even down to having a couple ex-sons-in-law showing up to honor her.
Whatever beliefs you have about death and afterlife, Anne lives on, in the lives she impacted, in the children she raised, in the memories we have and pass on.
I love you, Anne. I miss you, Anne. Peace be with you.
Posted by Darleen at February 6, 2005 11:03 AM
Comments
Beautifully done, Darleen
Simply beautiful.......
Posted by: Sherri Reese at February 6, 2005 08:10 PM
Time will make the pain fade, but the wonderful memories continue forever. Thank you, Darleen, for an absolutely beautiful story.
Posted by: Right Wing Nut Job at February 8, 2005 11:36 AM
The only problem with portraying Dean as a clown is weighing it against 1500 American body bags casued by Bush's war against non-existent WMDs.
America is waking up and the Democrats are looking better and better thanks to GOP failed leadership, again.
Posted by: Nicki at February 17, 2005 06:12 PM